


Appetite

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chef AU, Chef!john, Eventual Smut, Food Critic!Sherlock, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock Loves John, losers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a renowned food critic. John has a food truck. You can see where this is going.</p><p>Or, as DaringD said:</p><p>Highly recognizable (unfortunately) Food Critic, Sherlock Holmes, is desperate to do his job without the terrified angst caused by his appearance at restaurants city-wide. It also makes it IMPOSSIBLE to have a decent, relaxed meal! In true desperation, he turns to one of the ubiquitous city-wide food trucks for (hopefully) anonymous sustenance and encounters a little slice of fast-food heaven in the guise of a home-made meatball sandwich accompanied by gourmet crisps! And even better, John, Cook/Culinary Angel, doesn't know him from Adam, thinks his deductions are "brilliant", AND took Sherlock up on his awkwardly accidental inviting himself over for dinner! Could this tender and oh-so-delectable mutual attraction, coupled with a love of deliciously crafted food, blossom into love worthy of a 5 Star Rating?! Stay tuned and find out! ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts).



It was unwise, he knew, and yet every time he tried to walk away his legs wouldn't listen. He flashed back to a particularly good kebab from a truck just like this one that had turned out horribly. It was much too easy for someone in this line of work to eschew safety standards and ignore code violations and all it would do if he asked to view the inside of the truck would be to rouse suspicions. No. He needed to stay anonymous and this little stretch of land was the only place he could do so.

There are approximately five hundred deaths each year due to foodbourne illnesses. Five hundred. That number doesn't even take into account those who survived, which could arguably be worse if living isn't really your thing. Sometimes Sherlock thought it would be best if he just crawled into an early grave. Then, at least, he wouldn't have to put up with the idiots he meets in kitchens and dining rooms across the country. 

The reason he was there, standing on the corner hesitant to move in either direction, was the idiots in the place he'd tried to eat. They'd recognised him immediately and the waiter had nearly fainted. When she gave him the specials she nervously told him not to try the veal as it wasn't as fresh as promised. She stammered, blood leaving her face, and had to excuse herself from the room as Sherlock set down his water glass and pulled his napkin from his shirt. He'd left right then, taking quick notes on a small pad of paper as he did, to the horror of the entire building.

There was someone whistling in the truck. Sherlock thought of how many diseases could be spread through saliva and swallowed roughly before approaching. 

There was a second there where he waited to be recognised but it didn't come. Instead, the man who'd been whistling leaned his arms against the window ledge and smiled at him.

"Are you going to order, or just stand there?" he asked teasingly.

No, this man had no idea who he was. Sherlock smiled internally and cleared his throat.

"What would you suggest?" he asked, standing with his hands behind his back.

"The roast beef sandwich is a big hit," the man replied. "But the meatball is my personal favorite."

Sherlock thought momentarily of choosing something vegetarian but then decided salmonella was just as bad as anything else and took a step forward.

"I'll trust you, I suppose," he replied. "Meatball it is."

The man smiled and nodded before turning away and getting to work. Sherlock took in everything he could, from the man's freshly gloved hands to the pressure washer crammed in the corner, his eyes assaulting each inch of the food truck.

"See anything you like?" the man said over his shoulder, eyebrow arched.

Sherlock moved back and sniffed loudly. "You keep a clean shop. I was only appreciating it."

"Yeah, well, you work as a doctor for years and you get in the habit of keeping things tidy. I've seen enough illness to know better," the man said. "I'm John by the way."

"William," Sherlock lied, well, sort of. "What made you change professions?"

"Injury," the man, John, replied stiffly.

Sherlock nodded in recognition and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Was it enemy fire?"

John's body stiffened and he turned slowly. "How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock but his lip before going on, he was quite intent on the sandwich and chances were he wouldn't get it once he deduced the man. He cursed himself for doing it once again, wishing he had the self control his brother had cultivated over so many years.

"The way you stand, the haircut. The fact that your trigger finger twitched when you said 'injury'. Everything points towards combat and you said you were a doctor so I suspect you were RAMC but there's more. You saw action, quite a bit, and that's when you were injured," Sherlock replied, ready for the inevitable fallout.

"Brilliant," John spit.

"Sorry what?"

"I said you're brilliant," John replied. "And I've forgot all about your sandwich."

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock said under his breath.

John came forward with the sandwich and a small bag of crisps and when Sherlock reached for his wallet he shook his head. "This one's on the house. What do people usually say?"

Sherlock took the sandwich and sat down at the small table and chairs laid out.

"Piss off," he said with a self effacing smile. 

John looked at his watch and turned the open sign around to read 'back in twenty minutes'.

"Do you mind if I join you? The lunch rush doesn't seem to be coming today," he asked, removing his gloves and apron and grabbing a bag of crisps and an apple.

"Not at all," Sherlock said, not sure why the man would want to and still a bit amazed that he had yet to be punched.

Once John was out of the truck and sitting at the table across from Sherlock the taller man was able to take a bite of his food. That was about all he was able to do. The taste, the taste was incredible. The meatballs were almost crispy on the outside and full of so much flavor that Sherlock couldn't help but gasp as it hit his tongue. Not in years had he encountered something this delicious.

"Like it, do you?" John asked, taking a bite of his apple and watching Sherlock chew, eyes closed in concentration.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement.

The bread, oh, the bread was warm and fresh and there was no way it was store bought. Sherlock had an image for a second of the man, this John, leaning over the counter in a small flat, kneading bread and he smiled. Who was this man? This genius? Why had he never heard of him before?

John watched him with a sort of concerned fascination. People loved the food he made, yes, but this man seemed to be really tasting it. The way his eyes were closed as he licked his lips made John shift in his seat as his prick took keen interest in the goings on. Not the time, he knew, but Christ, what gorgeous lips and what a perfect pink tongue.

He cleared his throat and took another bite of his apple, eyes drifting down and to the side to focus on a crack in the kerb that was housing a small weed. He focused on the weed, the way it found the perfect place to grow between two bits of broken cement, away from any quickly traveling feet. Plant, cement, not cock. Not lips and not tongue.

"Where did you train?" the tall man asked suddenly.

"Saint Bart's," John replied, not following.

"No, not to be a doctor. Where did you learn to cook like this?" Sherlock asked, pressing at the edges of his lips with a paper napkin. "I'd say more likely the National Baking School due to the quality of the bread but the meatballs were..."

"No, I, I'm, I learned from my grandmother. My parents died when I was young and I went with my sister to live with her," John corrected nervously, as he was starting to get the idea that this man knew a bit more about food than he was letting on. "I did bake the bread, though. You have a good palate."

Sherlock opened the bag of crisps and drew one out, looking at it suspiciously. "Chardonnay white vinegar?"

"Just try it," John pressed.

Sherlock stuck one in his mouth and chewed with a puzzled look on his face. "Where on earth did you find these?"

"I order them from Morrison's," John replied. "Cost a bit more but they're worth it, I'd say. The sweet cured ham and pickle is good on its own."

Sherlock took his notepad out of his pocket and started to scribble on it.

"If you come back I'll make you my tomato soup and give you a bag of cheddar and caramelised onion," John said, suddenly hoping the strange man would come back.

"I'll be out of town for the next two weeks," Sherlock replied regretfully.

"Oh, well, hopefully I'll still be here," John said with a sad smile.

Sherlock looked up suddenly and stuffed his notepad back in his pocket. "I'm free for dinner. Tonight. If you'd like to cook for me."

John chuckled and licked his lips. "Did you just invite yourself to my place for dinner?" Sherlock turned his head away, trying in vain to hide his blush, and John went on. "William, that would...I mean, yes. You should come over. Tonight."

Sherlock looked back, slightly confused before he realised he'd told John that was his name, and chewed his lip before writing his phone number on a paper napkin and handing it over.

"Text me when you're ready," he said as he stood.

"Yeah," John replied, picking up the napkin and running his thumbs over the number, "yeah, I'll do that. Maybe seven-ish."

Sherlock nodded and paused for a second before turning and walking away. John watched him go, a mysterious man in a long coat, and sighed.


	2. Glad You Could Make It

Sherlock wasn't quite surprised when he received the text message that evening. The address given was in one of the many bad areas of London, as Sherlock had suspected due to John's shoes and the wear of his denims, the man was obviously hurting for money. Sherlock remembered a time when he'd gone to a disgusting bedsit there to purchase heroin back before he gave it and its counterpart up for good. He wrinkled his nose at the memory and stood to slip on his coat.

In the taxi on the way over he wondered how he had possibly got himself into such an arrangement. He rarely went to people's houses for dinner, the only exception being his old friend Angelo, and had turned down more offers than he could count. Now he'd gone and invited himself. Bizarre to say the least.

There was something about the shorter man, the doubtlessly competent doctor and soldier, that he just couldn't shake. Maybe it was the dichotomy of his obvious healing nature along side the power he held himself with. A healer and a killer all rolled into one. Sherlock could tell something lurked beneath his placid surface, something dark and waiting to be shown, or rather, given reason to show itself. The twitch of the trigger finger was a tell, and not one that had gone unnoticed. Not in the least.

Sherlock had thought long and hard about becoming a policeman when he was younger. His constant dismissal of supposed authority figures had stalled and eventually stopped his progress. He'd always wanted to hunt down baddies and get the kind of adrenaline rush he felt when he solved the small mysteries he always seemed to run into. It wasn't until he was nineteen that he was able to reign it in, drawn thin from his time as a junkie and desperate for something to do that didn't involve living inside his own head, and focus it on his other love; tearing down people who made horrible food.

He had always been at odds with food, the delight in eating seeming a bit frivolous to him as it only led to his mind slowing to a dull roar. He'd learned to overcome it though, watching his portions and only eating two meals a day meant he had the mental acuity to dissect the food in front of him in his famously scientific manner. One grain of salt could be detected, one drop of vanilla syrup.

There was something refreshing about needling out what second rate chefs thought they could hide, something rewarding in calling their bluff. He'd made lips quiver and tears fall all across the country and even farther in recent months. He'd also caused a stir in many a restaurant by pointing out the odd underutilized staff member, raising them above the rest in a powerful, if cold, way. He knew of a few who were able to start their own establishments after a couple of honest words from the great Sherlock Holmes. He was known to make and break careers.

What was bubbling inside him now was the need to tell John all the things he was doing right with his food. He needed to get it out of his head or risk it spinning there forever, restless as it was. 

But maybe, just maybe, it was a fluke. Maybe the soup that night would be unremarkable. Maybe he was being blinded by his obvious interest in more carnal endeavors. He had to admit, if only to himself, that it was a possibility. Something about the way the man held himself, the way he walked, had Sherlock's mouth watering with the thought of falling to his knees and letting the Army doctor press his cock into the wet heat of his mouth. Ridiculous. Ridiculous and pointless and useless and-

"I said, we're here. Are you getting out, or what?" the cabbie asked in a gruff manner.

"Yes, I'm getting out," Sherlock bit back, tossing a few notes over the partition and stepping onto the kerb.

A tall building stood ahead of him and he checked his mobile once more before walking up to the front of it and pushing his way through a set of doors, the glass on one cracked and beveled slightly and the other obviously a replacement due to whatever horrors had fallen upon its predecessor. He scowled at the smell in the hall as he walked to the stairs, stale cigarette smoke only slightly masked by a lemon scented cleanser that was possibly worse smelling. He was tempted to leave, if only to stick his head outside for a quick, literal, breather. The street wouldn't be much better however so he continued on his way.

The lack of an elevator made him wonder if the building, underneath the stucco and peeling wallpaper, had been built before it was common to have them in cheaper places. He ran his fingers along the wall as he climbed the stairs and immediately regretted it, some sort of sticky residue reminding him that his control over his body, his transport, didn't keep him from gagging a bit at the thought of what the residue might be.

When he'd finally made it to the third storey and found the door to John's flat he was quite done with the rundown building and wondering if the inside of John's flat would offer any respite. 

He knocked once and stood with his hands in his pockets, a nervous tick he didn't want to ponder the reason for at that moment. John was quick to answer, opening the door with a soft smile and a lick of his lips as he wiped his left hand on his apron and motioned for Sherlock to enter.

"Hi, um, glad you could make it," he said as he closed the door behind Sherlock.

The taller man was immediately struck by the smells emanating from the small kitchen. The scent of fresh bread brought him back to his summers spent in France as a child, the hours at his grandmother's side as she worked in the kitchen and garden. Rosemary. There must be rosemary in the bread John was baking. He closed his eyes and could see the rosemary bushes in the field behind his grandparent's home, slowly swaying in the breeze as he sat beneath an olive tree.

"Everything alright?" John asked, for what Sherlock suspected wasn't the first time.

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded. "The rosemary reminded me of something."

"You've got a keen nose," John said with a smile. "Come on into the kitchen. Food's almost ready."


	3. Very Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served and Sherlock goes against his every logical impulse.

There was a sort of tenderness in the man's face when he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose, John thought. Something that told him he wasn't just smelling but rather experiencing something, something far away in either distance or time. The way his eyes fluttered open as John urged him farther into the flat, his pause and the shift in demeanor, broke John's heart. There was obviously something gentle inside him that was aching to come out, he only wished he knew what.

"Would you like some wine?" John asked as he led Sherlock to the kitchen and stirred the soup absently, watching the way the tall man's eyes flitted this way and that as he took in his surroundings.

There was a slight nod which John took to mean agreement as Sherlock appraised the flat. It was small, and cramped, but in a way that reminded one of a cottage instead of a dingy bedsit. It was warm inside, due to more than just the temperature, and Sherlock wondered where John had got his housekeeping style from. Things were clean and tidy but there was something about the entirety of it that felt lived in like an old library might.

Sherlock took the glass proffered and sat at a small table while John went back to the food. He took a sip, noting that it was a cheap red that just happened to be one of his favorites, price tag be damned, and smiled.

"That's got to be a fire hazard," he said as he nodded towards the high tech oven at the end of the room, something John had obviously added.

"It's set up correctly. The other one is unhooked," John replied as he pulled the bread from the oven and placed it on the cutting board.

"Couldn't stand to cook on an electric?" Sherlock asked, watching as John positioned the bread and laid a towel over the top.

"Could you?" John shot back.

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. Dear god, he was in deep.

_____

The soup was as amazing as the sandwich had been and by the time dinner was over Sherlock had eaten a bit more than he'd planned and was breathing deeply, head fuzzy, while sipping a glass of surprisingly good whiskey on John's sofa. John sat across from him in the only real armchair in the flat, legs crossed and foot ticking this way and that in a lazy fashion that drew Sherlock's eye and refused to give it up. 

John was watching him closely, he could feel it, but he was so relaxed that he really didn't care.

"So, what do you do, William?" John asked, licking his lips unconsciously and spreading his legs.

Sherlock watched his left foot fall to the ground and glanced up. Dark blue eyes. Cor, his eyes.

"Bookkeeping," he lied, quickly sipping from his drink as soon as it had come out.

"Bookkeeping? Really?" John asked, eyebrows knit and a small smirk on his lips.

Sherlock was tempted then to drop the ruse, to tell John his real name and his real occupation and leave all the bullshit to the side like trimmed fat. So tempted that he set his glass down on the small table between them and rested his hands on his knees, taking up the posture of one about to tell a secret. His mouth opened and then closed, John's eyes on his lips the entire time.

"Yes, really," Sherlock replied, quickly looking away. "Where's the loo?"

John raised an eyebrow at the obvious discomfort but pointed him in the direction of the loo and watched him stand and make his way across the small flat.

Sherlock closed the door behind himself and turned on the tap, curling his hands together to cup the cold water and bending at the waist to splash it on his face. If there was one thing he didn't do, one thing he would not do, it was to sleep with a chef. They were notoriously pushy and neurotic and overbearing. 

'Don't shit where you eat,' a professor had once told him. The man was new to London, and England as a whole, and as such his colloquialisms were a bit peculiar. The point came across just fine.

Sleeping with John was a horrible idea. Chefs and critics don't mesh, they just don't. And no, it didn't have to do with not buggering the help, because he knew that John was not simply a tool (and how strange was that knowledge?).

He gripped the edges of the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. His cheeks were a bit coloured and he wondered if the man had noticed. Scratch that, he hoped the man hadn't noticed. He took a hand towel and dried off his face before turning off the light and walking back into the sitting room.

"I have biscuits and tea, if you'd like," John said from his seat. "Or more whiskey."

Sherlock swallowed and blinked and found himself, to his horror, walking quickly over and settling into John's lap. John's eyes went wide and he gripped the taller man's hips. Sherlock swallowed again and John smirked.

"Well, hello," he said, voice surprisingly rich, honeyed even.

Sherlock didn't reply, looking back and forth between John's eyes and breathing roughly through his nose.

John let his hands fall to Sherlock's arse and pulled him forward a bit so he could feel the growing bulge in his denims. It was enough to force a small wounded sound from Sherlock's lips and John chuckled darkly.

"Thought you'd be the type to order me into your lap," John said smugly. "Bit pushy, you are."

Sherlock glanced away as a flush moved up his neck and John's right hand drifted up to run across it, fingers caressing the reddening skin until they slipped into the short curls at his nape.

"Not a complaint, mind you," John added.

"I don't usually...this is only sex," Sherlock said, the lie burning deep in his stomach as he said it.

John's brow furrowed and he breathed through his nose. Sherlock thought he was going to object, and held his breath tightly, but he didn't. He simply licked his lips and nodded.

"Alright, then," he said calmly.

And what a bastard to be calm right then, Sherlock thought, when he himself could barely breathe.

"Shall we find ourselves a bed, then?" John asked, fingers playing at the top two buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock nodded and John gripped his arse once more, roughly, before standing with enough force that if he hadn't been holding the taller man tightly he would have fallen to the floor. Sherlock flushed a deeper shade of red at being manhandled and stifled a whimper as John pushed him backwards towards what he assumed, in some far off place where he still had the mental faculties to do things as complicated as assuming, was the bedroom. 

The door swung open and John maneuvered him to the bed with a quick shove and then took his face in his hands.

"You're gorgeous, you know that, right?" he murmured before leaning forward and pressing his lips to Sherlock's without giving him a chance to respond, let alone attempt to get his breathing back to normal.

It was all happening with frightening quickness and Sherlock's eyes fell closed as John left his mouth and latched onto his neck. The next minute or so was filled with them trying to discard their clothes without breaking apart, a strange dance that had John thanking the gods that his new lover was long limbed and flexible.

"God, look at you," John panted, finally pulling away and pushing Sherlock down onto his back, fingers lingering on his chest as it rose and fell.

"John," Sherlock moaned, hips rolling of their own accord as something in the back of his mind told him to stop this, to stop it all before it went too far. But, Christ, it had already done that, hadn't it? He was breathless and naked with his legs spread and he was trembling.

John must have seen some sort of apprehension because he pressed the whole of his palm to his chest gently and chewed his bottom lip in a clear attempt to tamp down the arousal flowing through his veins.

"You sure?" he asked, voice gentle. "We don't have to-"

"Fuck me," Sherlock said, his voice unwavering and holding enough intensity to ensure that John didn't ask him again.

"Good, right, erm, condoms," John said, suddenly much more the courteous man Sherlock had met in the street than the force of nature Sherlock was just experiencing.

Sherlock watched him go, to the side of the bed and retrieve two condoms and a bottle of lube, hand on he base of his cock to calm himself, and then back, to lean down and press a kiss so far up Sherlock's inner thigh that the bridge of his nose nuzzled into black curls. Sherlock's eyes fell shut and he moaned as John drew away to ready a condom.

"I'm clean but I also used to be a doctor," John said, a weird sort of nervous small talk spilling from his lips.

Sherlock whined and gripped the sheets at either side of his waist, knuckles going white, as John rolled the condom on halfway with his fingers before pushing it the rest of the way with his lips. The sudden heat and tightness urging Sherlock's hips up. John pushed them back down and pulled off, letting the head pop from his mouth obscenely.

Sherlock moaned and John chuckled, back again in the mind frame of tearing that man apart. He slicked his fingers and stroked Sherlock's cock once from root to tip, a flick of the wrist had Sherlock bucking up once more. As he rubbed circles around Sherlock's fluttering hole he took the tip of his cock back into his mouth and sucked. His finger slipped in to the first knuckle and he wriggled it.

Sherlock was panting at that point and making small strangled noises, the hot breath puffing from John's nose across the shaft of his cock helping his focus remain on he task at hand instead of where his mind was trying to go; a place filled with anxiety over John finding out his secrets.

John opened him slowly, the careful fingers of a doctor probing him relentlessly, and was soon opening a condom for himself and rolling it on.

"Budge up," he said, pushing at Sherlock's hips until he scooted up to lay his head on the pillow.

Sherlock moaned as his body was covered by John's, the feeling of being caged in, being surrounded, made him dizzy. It was amazing, this smaller man making him feel so deliciously vulnerable. 

That's when the first push happened. His eyes rolled back into his head and it made the dizziness grow.

"Yeah?" John asked, eyebrows furrowed as he held the base of his cock and watched the head slip into tight heat.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, clenched teeth making him nearly hiss.

John pulled out and pushed back in slowly, inching in bit by bit, and let go of his cock to reach up and press a thumb into Sherlock's mouth. It tasted of cheap lubricant as Sherlock sucked it, biting gently. Sherlock opened his eyes to remind himself where he was; with a handsome amateur chef and not in an alley pressed between two bins. John's eyes moved up from his lips and he grinned at him, skin flushed and hair sticking to his forehead.

Sherlock found himself smiling back, chuckling even, as John started to move. It was unique, this feeling of complete relaxation during sex. He thought sex was supposed to be serious but John was giggling and licking his lips and fucking into him and everything was bloody divine. He felt something clench in his chest at the thought that he had been missing something, some aspect of sex, the whole time. He hated missing things.

The thought didn't linger as John sat up and drew one long leg over his shoulder, (his good one obviously, Sherlock thought, noting the dramatic scarring on the other for the first time) and drove himself a little deeper. Sherlock grunted and rolled his hips.

"Yeah?" John asked. "Like that?"

"Deeper," Sherlock moaned, turning his hips in the hopes that John could press farther in.

John pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, fingers curled around the taller man's thigh. Sherlock's breath hitched and he arched his back.

"Yeah," John said, grunting louder with every thrust. 

Sherlock was gone, bloody gone, there was no other word for it. His thighs tensed as the rest of him went limp and he started to come. John's hand closed around the head of his prick and worked the thick ropes of come from him eagerly. Sherlock's hands twitched and he groaned low and long as his body relaxed and John started to fuck him in short deep thrusts, body seemingly unable to let him pull out any more.

"Jesus," John spit, hips stilling as he came.

It took a while for him to move, a time in which Sherlock betrayed every instinct to hurry things along and head home and instead ran fingers through short blond hair, and once he did it was with exhausted motions. 

He lay down on the bed next to Sherlock and kissed his shoulder before removing his condom, and the one Sherlock had forgot was even on, and tossing them into a small bin next to the bed. He came back with a discarded shirt and wiped Sherlock's brow with it before drawing it slowly down his chest and then between his legs.

"God, you're gorgeous," he murmured, hand resting on Sherlock's inner thigh.

"Yes, you've said," Sherlock replied with a soft smile. 

John elbowed him and he snorted before closing his eyes and Sherlock rolled onto his side to slung an arm around John's waist.

"Would you like to spend the night?" John asked, hand brushing through damp curls.

"Very much," Sherlock replied, and then in his head, 'but I can't'. 

"Good," John whispered, reaching down to pull the duvet over them.

Sherlock ignored the thoughts spiraling in his brain, the ones telling him that social bonds were formed overnight, that they grew when people slept in the same bed, that he wouldn't be able to say no to breakfast the next morning and then more mundane things until John was sick of him. The thoughts that told him that by then he would be hopelessly infatuated with John and it would hurt, oh, god, how it would hurt. Because he knew. He knew what it was like for him when he formed attachments. That was why he avoided these situations, why he fucked in back alleys and dark clubs and not in flats or, for fuck's sake, beds.

Instead he listened carefully to the slowing of John's breathing and categorised the sounds he made as he fell asleep. And then, once John was asleep, he tasted his skin and promised himself he wouldn't forget it.


	4. Old And Used Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is an idiot...but we already knew that.

The bottom of John's stomach fell out. He was alone in bed, the space next to him, covers pulled back and rumpled, was cool to the touch.

It was surprising to him that he'd slept through the night, not having done so in a long time, and all the way into morning, his bedside clock blinking eight sixteen. Perhaps it was having a warm body against him. The thought was somewhat painful as the body against him was now gone. No note, no message on his mobile. 

He listened for the sound of the shower and realised he'd be happier to find out his recent bedmate was presumptuous rather than gone. No sound came so he rolled out of bed and padded to the front door, locking it and putting the chain on, fingers lingering on the off white paint where it chipped just below the door handle.

_____

Sherlock held his mobile in his hand as he rode in the cab to the airport, things already packed and tossed into the boot. It was nine o'clock in the morning, five hours after his silent exit from John's flat, and he still felt sick. He entered a few words, tried to make them sound genuine, and then deleted them. It was too late to say goodbye, to tell John he'd had a good evening, to say he'd see him soon. He'd waited too long, watching the time slip by as he lay on his sofa and the sun rose, every hour seeming to push him further from John. Now it was impossible.

He deleted John's number and stuck his mobile back in his jacket pocket.

_____

By the time lunch rolled around John was in a terrible mood. He fed his regulars and ate a pastrami sandwich by himself, legs hanging over the edge of the back of the truck, feet twitching. He'd heard nothing from the man he knew as William and really didn't understand why that had such an impact on him. It wasn't as if he was unused to one night stands, his relationships since being discharged had rarely been anything but, and he'd never had a lasting relationship with a man, sexual or otherwise. The one time he got close too many obstacles stood in his way.

The thought of Sholto and their single fevered night together behind a tent in the middle of the Afghanistan desert, fatigues hastily pushed aside and nothing but spit and sweat to ease the way, made his lip curl and his stomach take up the knots he was so sure he was done with.

He set his sandwich down and rubbed at his eyes, a tiredness that had nothing to do with the usual lack of sleep taking him. 

William. William was... Well, he was gone. He was frustrating and amazing and bloody gorgeous but gone. He'd have to get over it. Maybe go to a club that night and try to get a leg over.

That thought alone made him more uncomfortable. Clubs always made him feel old. Old and used up.

_____

Sherlock shifted on his knees and tried to take more of the man's cock, saliva already dripping down his chin from the exertion. He squinted as the man shifted and the security light, the one placed to shine directly on the pub's back door, came into view. Tears collected in the corners of his eyes as his mouth was roughly used.

He palmed himself through his trousers and closed his eyes, moaning at the feeling and trying to use more suction as the man thrust deep and pulled out in a dizzying fashion. He was hard and leaking a bit and as the saliva spilled over his chin and ran down his neck his hair was pulled tightly and the man above him grunted and swore.

"Christ, you're a gorgeous lad, aren't you?" the man hissed, Irish lilt going unnoticed in the shadow of the words he said.

Sherlock was suddenly back in John's bed, the older man's fingers digging into his thighs. 'Gorgeous', John whispered, 'you know that, right?'

Sherlock came with a shudder and choked as he tried to breathe through a too full mouth. The man above him, decidedly not one John Watson, grunted again and pulled out to stroke himself to completion and slip off the condom. He barely even noticed when the man left, eyes still closed and the phantom reminder of John's hand in his hair, thumbs stroking his neck gently. 'Gorgeous.'

_____

The few weeks Sherlock was gone felt like years, John wondering for a while late at night whether he'd ever come back and then cursing himself for it, so when he showed up early one evening, just as the sun was starting to fall and John was packing up and getting ready to leave, it was a surprise. The look on his face and his meek demeanor were a surprise as well, the confident man John had met before washed away like a load of rouge. He walked forward with his hands in his pockets and his head lowered.

"John," he said as he came near.

John still hadn't said a word, mouth in a tight line as something like betrayal roiled in his stomach.

"I was going to call," Sherlock tried, "but I deleted your number."

Something in John's face shifted and he let out a snort of laughter, easing Sherlock's mind. "Is that meant to be a pick up line?"

Sherlock smiled weakly, yet honestly, and shrugged.

"Have I ever told you I make a mean shepherd's pie?" John asked, licking his lips and settling his hands on the windowsill.

"You haven't, yet I believe it," Sherlock replied, taking a deep breath and suddenly feeling like the world had righted itself.

"So, want to come to mine?" John asked with a grin.

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded.

"Then your chariot awaits," John quipped, opening the door and moving out of the way.

Sherlock pulled his coat tight around him and entered the truck.


	5. Goodnight...Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Life changes and all. Hope you like it!

Sherlock had arrived only several minutes before dinner was ready the last time he'd been to John's, something he hadn't realised was a tragedy until he was dicing potatoes next to John several weeks later and having fun at it. Fun at dicing potatoes. Bizarre as it was he couldn't stop the smile that was starting to creep its way onto his face.

"So will you be leaving the country for a few weeks after dinner?" John asked, somewhat jokingly.

Sherlock's chest felt tight and he cleared his throat but before he could reply John spoke up again.

"Sorry," he said, "that wasn't fair."

Sherlock licked his lips and breathed deeply through his nose.

"I just...is it strange that I missed you?" John asked with an uncomfortable laugh. "Shit, ignore me. I'm just tired."

"I'm not," Sherlock said softly, his voice almost cracking. "Leaving, that is."

John took the potatoes from Sherlock's cutting board and dropped them into the boiling water. When he returned to his space next to Sherlock and opened the fridge he was breathing easier.

"So you'll stay? Tonight?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful and not sure if he was succeeding.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, taking a long swig of wine and clearing his throat again before going on. "I meant to stay the last time."

"But you didn't," John said a bit too sharply.

"And it upset you," Sherlock added quickly, not sure if he really believed it.

John nodded brusquely and set about cutting some carrots.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, finally looking over and trying to meet John's eyes.

"Bit of a shite question," John scoffed, under the impression Sherlock was looking for a compliment. 

When he glanced sideways and saw the confusion on Sherlock's face he scrunched up his nose. Sherlock looked away and went to stir the sauce John had on the stove and John watched the way he fidgeted and sighed.

"You really didn't think it would upset me?" he asked.

"You don't have trouble finding dates," Sherlock replied quickly. "I was sure you'd move on quickly enough."

Christ, he hated that. Hated the way he'd put it, 'move on', as if there was anything substantial to move on from. They'd had a one night stand and that was it. He shouldn't have slept with John in the first place and now he was back in his kitchen and he was blowing it. 

His stomach fell when John stiffened and then went to turn the water off.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have-" he began.

John turned and took the knife from Sherlock's limp hand and tossed it into the sink before crowding him against the counter and putting hand in either side of his waist. He looked like he was about to yell as he took in one shuddering breath.

"It upset me. It upset me the entire time you were gone. The only time I didn't find it upsetting was when you were back and agreeing to dinner. You're handsome and funny in a dismissive sort of way and you're clever, brilliant I'd wager. Not sure why you thought I wouldn't mind you disappearing," John said without meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh,"Sherlock whispered.

"And if you'll just admit you like me as well I can take you to bed and utterly destroy you," John added.

Sherlock swallowed and John watched his Adam's apple bob, licking his lips and breathing roughly through his nose.

"I would, that is, yes," Sherlock replied quickly. "Yes. I like you."

John growled and reached up to pull Sherlock down into a searing kiss. Sherlock sighed relief as John's tongue pushed against his and he rocked his hips forward.

"What about the shepherd's pie?" Sherlock asked with what little breath he had left after John stepped back.

"Sod it," John said, smile turning up one corner of his mouth. "I'll make it for you tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said with wide eyes. "Yes, tomorrow."

"Come on then," John said, nodding towards the bedroom. "I've got two weeks of sexual frustration to get out."

_____

Somehow it wasn't like the first time. John moved over his body in a way that gave Sherlock the impression he was trying to record everything. John's fingers gripped and his nails dug in where they were just for him to let go and inspect the skin. 

He licked and sucked and kissed every inch of Sherlock's stomach and chest as the genius watched in awe, his cock bouncing slowly with his labored breath.

"John," he said hoarsely.

"Mmm," John hummed, finally dipping to let the base of Sherlock's cock press against his tight lips.

"Oh, God," Sherlock moaned, head falling back and then lolling to the side.

John hummed again, this time the vibrations pulsing through Sherlock's cock and settling in a tingling way deep in his bollocks.

"I'm going to die," he said softly.

John pulled back and lay his head at the junction of leg and hip, chuckling deeply as he took up where he left off with his hand, stroking slowly and focussing on the head.

"I'd really rather you not," he murmured against warm skin.

"Might not have a say in that," Sherlock replied weakly.

"So mouthy," John teased as he played with Sherlock's foreskin. "I think I should do something about that."

The sound Sherlock made when John pulled away and went to get a condom and some lube was about as close to a petulant whine as a grown man can get, higher than Sherlock's normal speaking range and tight, and caused John to chuckle more before climbing back onto the bed.

"I missed you," John murmured as he tore open a condom wrapper and rolled it onto his own hard cock. "Didn't want to but I did. Barely got a bloody taste of this before you took it away." John said as he rolled a condom onto Sherlock's prick as well. 

"Won't happen again," Sherlock replied shakily.

John leaned down and kissed him, a kiss that was softer than he'd intended and lasted still as he poured some slick into his hand and closed it around their cocks. Sherlock grunted into his mouth and thrust his hips, eyes squeezing closed as his cock got that little bit harder. John pushed his arm under Sherlock's neck and rolled his hips slowly as his hand sped up.

Sherlock mumbled against his lips and John pulled back to kiss up his neck.

"You, unhh, please," Sherlock tried desperately, plummeting towards climax at a rate he wasn't quite comfortable with, mind going fuzzy.

"Fucking beautiful, getting you incoherent," John said, voice husky and raw as he gripped them both tight and attempted to wring them dry.

Sherlock whimpered at the comment and John cursed under his breath as he chewed on Sherlock's earlobe and the man began to come. And, bloody hell, he could feel it. The way Sherlock's cock twitched in his hand as it spilled into the condom made John shake and go over the edge as well.

"William," he grunted directly into Sherlock's ear.

The name made Sherlock's stomach turn and ruined his impending afterglow so thoroughly that he had to close his eyes and pretend the sound that left him was ecstasy. John, thankfully, didn't realise and went on stroking them until they were both too over sensitised to continue. He kissed Sherlock once more on the neck before pulling back with a deep sigh and walking to the loo.

William. Bloody William. Sherlock hated himself for using it on John. Yes, the name he went by now, his middle name, was more recognisable but it didn't carry with it the memories of a lonely childhood and constant dismissal. 

He'd changed his name to Sherlock once he'd gone off to uni, thinking wrongly that the change might be enough to give him a new outlook on life. All it had done was give his contemporaries one more thing to tease him about. He thought, much later, that it probably made him stronger. Stronger and smarter, wisdom being the memory of old pain and all, and let him see people for who they really were. 

Now he wore it as a shield. No one would forget the name Sherlock Holmes, never again would they remember him as just another William. The strangeness of his name seemed to fit his newly hardened exterior and he was perfectly happy believing that William, the boy he once was, had died years ago. Dead and buried was the child that yearned for acceptance. Dead and usurped.

When he came to, rising above the fog of his thoughts, John was carefully, no, wrong, tenderly, cleaning him with a warm flannel, and kissing the skin he uncovered until he'd made his way back up to his lips.

The kiss felt like a betrayal, at least to Sherlock himself, and he wondered how he was to dig himself out of that particular hole. He knew how to dig down, had mastered it, but coming clean was something he rarely did.

John lay beside him and pulled him in, taking the position Sherlock was disgusted to think of as 'the big spoon', and kissing the back of his neck.

"I have a confession to make," John murmured.

'So do I,' Sherlock thought. Instead of voicing the thought he simply hummed with what he hoped sounded like curiosity. In truth the only thing he felt then was numb. A numbness that made his tongue feel thick and unwanted.

"I looked you up on the Internet," John whispered.

Sherlock went completely stiff and forgot how to breathe, something that he realised vaguely should be impossible, autonomic and all.

"It's fine," John whispered. "Still don't know why you gave me a fake name. Obviously haven't got used to it yet. The truth is I'm so happy to see you again that I can't manage to be angry."

"People...chefs treat me differently when they know who I am," Sherlock replied.

"Mmm, as I suspected. I knew you must be a chef or a critic. I'm not completely stupid after all. It was quite easy to find you. Only had to google 'ill mannered critic' and you showed up. You've got quite the reputation," John said, Sherlock feeling his smile where his lips touched just behind his ear.

"People hate being told they're doing things wrong," Sherlock said dismissively, wondering if John really thought he was ill mannered.

"And you don't pull any punches," John added with a squeeze of his hand.

"No," Sherlock whispered, "neither do you."

"You'll stay?" John asked, breathing in the scent of Sherlock like it was his last breath. "All night?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispered.

"Alright then, goodnight...Sherlock."

Sherlock turned in John's arms until he was resting his head against John's chest, toes peeking out from the bottom of the duvet and one leg pressed between John's. He closed his eyes and did his best to sleep.


	6. Bloody Amazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. Pure, unadulterated smut.

When John woke the next morning it was to a long limbed body wrapped tightly around him, left knee almost to his chest and arms holding him close. The smile that spread across his lips and the lightness in his chest were unstoppable, he swallowed deeply and ran his fingers through Sherlock's mussed curls. Sherlock's back arched and he hummed sleepily and pulled John fractionally closer.

"John," he murmured, rolling his hips and nuzzling the man's chest.

John's smile went lopsided and he kissed Sherlock's head, a move much more tender than he was capable of even anticipating the night before. He had honestly thought he'd wake up alone, the spot in bed next to him cool to the touch again. The fact that he now had an armful of warm and sleepy ill mannered critic was enough to make him want to hold him forever. He wriggled his toes and stretched himself.

"Shall we have breakfast?" He asked, continuing to card his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I can make eggs and ham."

Sherlock shifted and crawled atop John, covering him completely with his body, knees bracketing him in, and went limp. John snorted and rubbed his back.

"Alright then," he whispered, "back to bed it is."

_____

When John woke again it was to an urgent bladder and a heavy body not letting him ignore it. He nudged Sherlock until he rolled onto his side with a disappointed sound, and got up to go to the loo. Sherlock frowned in his sleep and pulled John's pillow to his chest. 

The sight in the mirror as John washed his hands after relieving himself was a surprise. He swore he hadn't looked that happy in a year. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and startled at the light knock on the door.

"Come in," he said, voice pinched.

Sherlock opened the door and slipped in, eyes almost completely closed and hair sticking up quite dramatically on one side. He moved past John and used the loo while John grinned at his back. He'd missed that sort of comfortable domesticity, hadn't had it since the army.

"Shower," Sherlock croaked as he crowded up behind John and washed his hands while pressed against John's back with his chin on his shoulder.

John was hit again with a bout of uncontrollable sentiment and hummed in agreement while he waited for Sherlock to finish. The sentiment turned to something else entirely when Sherlock made a curious noise and shifted his hips. He did it again and John felt his burgeoning erection pressing against his lower back. Sherlock let out a deep sigh and rested his chin more heavily on John's shoulder as his arms dropped and hands went to grip John's waist, fingers warm and damp.

John's eyes fluttered closed and he gripped the edges of the sink as Sherlock's right hand drifted forward and long fingers ran through the coarse hair above his keenly interested cock. When Sherlock said his name it rumbled through him and he clenched his jaw as Sherlock's hand slid lower and gripped the base of his cock.

"Christ," he grunted, letting his head loll forward as Sherlock's middle finger pressed between his bollocks and his thumb caressed his shaft.

He rolled his hips experimentally and Sherlock let out a whimper and stroked once up and up to the head of his prick. He could feel the wet spot where Sherlock's cock was leaking and the cool air of the flat made the hair on his legs stand on end as it passed over that patch of precome. He rolled his hips again and reached back to grip Sherlock's and pull him closer.

Sherlock widened his stance and used his left hand to push his cock between John's legs, the tip of it rubbing steadily at the back of John's bollocks as he started to thrust.

"Just...just for a second," he murmured, voice broken.

John pressed his knees together and flexed the muscles in his thighs and Sherlock choked out a strangled moan.

"I'll give you my mouth," Sherlock promised desperately, circling his thumb and forefinger around the base of John's cock and holding it tight.

"Fuck yes," John cursed.

Sherlock picked up speed and thrust shallowly between John's thighs, grunting roughly as John spit into his hand and reached down to spread it on Sherlock's cock before crossing one knee over the other and tightening the warm channel of his upper thighs.

Sherlock would have been embarrassed that it only took about ten fevered thrusts before he was stilling, hips pressed almost painfully close, and coming down John's thighs, if he had the capacity for thought. At the moment his brain was fizzing with endorphins as pleasure rushed through him. Thinking was for later.

John reached down and massaged the head of Sherlock's cock, rolling it in his hand and milking the last of his orgasm from him until he was whimpering and going slack behind him.

As John took his cock in hand, it aching now with the need to be touched, Sherlock slid to his knees, mouthing at the back of John's thigh before letting him turn, and smiled groggily. John cupped his face in one hand and pressed the tip of his cock to Sherlock's lips with the other. Sherlock opened his mouth obscenely and John moved his hips to enter the soft heat, the way Sherlock eagerly lapped at the underside of his cock making him grunt and thrust deeper.

Sherlock growled around his prick and grabbed his hips to pull him closer, eyes going up to meet John's as he swallowed around the head. John let out a gust of breath and bent over to clutch at his shoulder as Sherlock set up a demanding rhythm.

"Bloody hell," he murmured, "god, oh."

Sherlock hummed and dug his fingernails into John's arsecheeks. The tight heat, the wetness and constriction, was pushing John closer and just as he realised he was about to lose it he pulled out and stroked himself to completion, come spurting across Sherlock's cheeks and onto his greedy tongue. It felt amazing, unreal, painting Sherlock like this, claiming him. 

He finished with a stuttering gasp and felt his knees go weak, slumping to them in front of Sherlock and running his thumb over his right cheek to push more come into his mouth. Sherlock sucked roughly and John shivered and collapsed against him, lips pressing to Sherlock's neck.

"You," John panted, "are bloody amazing."

Sherlock ran his fingernails lazily up John's back and hummed deeply.

"How about that shower now?" He asked.

"Mmm," John replied. "Let me get my bearings back a bit."

Sherlock sighed happily and nuzzled his neck, giving in to his instincts and taking his comfort while he could. By the time the come had cooled John was willing to stand and Sherlock followed him into the shower.


	7. Worse Ways To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all goes a bit pear shaped for John. Luckily for him, Sherlock is a pushy bastard.

Sherlock didn't know how he'd possibly missed out on such an amazing experience. Well, that was a lie. He knew. He knew it had to do with his hesitation to let sex turn to intimacy. He let the thought go and closed his eyes, sighing deeply, as John continued to massage his scalp to spread the shampoo around.

"Like that, do you," John asked, the smile apparent in his voice.

Sherlock simply hummed, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and John chuckled.

"Best rinse now. Got to get the truck ready if I want to make it out for the lunch rush. Do you have work today?" John asked.

"Not until the evening," Sherlock replied, stepping hesitantly under the spray and closing his eyes.

When John didn't respond he opened his eyes again and took a step forward, letting John slip behind him and reaching for the conditioner.

"You could...that is, I'm going to a restaurant and you could join me. For dinner," he said.

John smiled and rested his hand on Sherlock's lower back. "I'd like that. Text me, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and took his place under the spray to rinse the conditioner from his hair.

_____

John was towel drying his hair after their shower when a knock came to the door. He slung the towel around his waist and went to open it.

"Notice for John Watson," the man in the hallway said with a grim face.

"Notice of what?" John asked, already holding his hand out for the letter.

"Eviction," the man replied, passing the letter over and walking away without so much as a look back.

John saw his hand clenching but he didn't feel the envelope crush, it seeming to have happened somewhere distant to someone else. He swallowed roughly and went to the kitchen to make breakfast, letter discarded on the floor.

"Who was that?" Sherlock asked, towel on his head as he sat at the table with a yawn.

"No one," John replied coolly.

Sherlock didn't say anything about the way John's eyes went dead and he seemed to move on autopilot as he made breakfast. The omelette was fantastic and he ate it with unusual gusto, having forgot that he didn't have dinner the evening prior. There was still a sense that something was off though, and as he said goodbye and left the flat he noticed the crumpled envelope on the floor with 'FINAL NOTICE' stamped on it.

_____

It was bullshit. Utter bullshit. John had lived there for the last year and a half and never paid rent late once. He wasn't a nuisance as he barely ever played music and he never had people over. In fact, Sherlock had been the first to come twice to his flat in the whole of the time he'd lived there. 

He stomped down to the manager's flat and knocked in a clipped manner. There were footsteps and then the door opened slowly.

"What's this?" He asked, gnashing his teeth as he closed his mouth, hand holding out he crumpled letter.

"You know exactly what it is, Mr Watson. We gave you plenty of notice," the manager said with a long suffering sigh. "The building's been bought up and the renovations start next week. Unless you can pay the new rent figures you'll have to move."

"That's bollocks!" John snarled. "You can't just bloody raise the rent that much and expect people to be able to stay. I think I should talk to a lawyer."

The man sighed and raised an eyebrow. "And what about the extra oven in your flat? It's against regulation, and as I recall, it's not the only thing."

John's nostrils flared and he clenched his hands before turning and walking away.

_____

Sherlock texted John that evening to meet him at the opening of a new restaurant on the grid. When John got out of the cab there was something obviously wrong, Sherlock could tell in the set of his jaw. He remembered the letter, it had been running circles in his head the whole day in all honesty. The pieces clicked together and he swallowed with sudden nervousness, sure for the first time since this began of his path.

"Evening," he said, voice slightly pinched.

John nodded and breathed deeply before following him into the restaurant. 

_____

Sherlock always loved the dramatic. A bit of flair and intrigue; a quick turnaround. That was why he waited until their entrée had been ordered before popping the question. No, not that question. The other one.

"I've a room open in my flat. You could move in right away if the landlord wants you out now," he said with false confidence, mouth dry and hands clenching his thighs below the table rather painfully.

And okay, it wasn't really a question. That was fine though, felt more genuine. John choked on his sparkling water and set it down with a thud.

"How in god's name-" he started.

Sherlock's heart beat faster and alarms sounded in his brain as he spun his deduction as quickly as possible. 

"The letter this morning with 'final notice' stamped on it was the first clue. The second was the flyer in the lobby promising renovation. An old building like that only goes through renovation for one reason. Someone's bought it up and wants to do a bit of gentrification. You wouldn't be able to afford the newly raised rent as you've put everything you have into your business yet you're stubborn enough to stick it out and hope they won't go through with it. Unfortunately, John, the situation didn't change. You need to move, and soon. I have an extra bedroom in my flat that my landlady has been trying to rent out, and a top of the line range in the kitchen. There's room for a second oven downstairs if you like."

John looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing as his mind tried to calculate everything that had just happened. When it finally snapped shut Sherlock swallowed nervously and took a sip of his water.

"You are a bloody genius," John whispered.

"Sorry?" Sherlock replied, honestly wondering if it was a compliment or a condemnation.

"You'll put up with me trying to feed you, then?" John asked with a sharp clearing of his throat.

Sherlock smiled into his napkin as he brushed it across his lips and then glanced up. "There are worse ways to die than your nagging, I suppose."

John kicked him softly under the table and grinned just as the waiter came with their food.


	8. Exclusively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to magialuna. Thank you for reminding me that I hadn't finished this story and getting my ass in gear. Hope you like this chapter and I'll try to get on writing a few more.

"Something special from the owner, Mr Holmes," the waiter said, presenting them with their food and a fine bottle of wine.

John's eyes grew wide and he beamed at Sherlock. Sherlock had never felt particularly lucky to have the job he did, it was a difficult job no matter how high profile, but just then he felt like he'd never been luckier. He watched as John eagerly picked up a fork and started on his meal as the waiter poured him a bit of wine to test.

"This is..." John tried, swallowing and going for another bite.

Sherlock took a sip of the wine and nodded at the waiter, who poured two hearty glasses and left.

"So you just go around being pampered by the best chefs in the business?" John asked, grinning like a kid in a candy shop.

"Well, you did make me one of the best sandwiches I've ever had," Sherlock said, "and washed my hair for me."

He noticed the slight blush move up John's neck as the man cleared his throat and reached for his glass. 

"Shall we toast?" John asked.

Sherlock held his glass aloft and breathed deeply, the affection he was feeling for the man across from him nearly overwhelming.

"To many more sandwiches and shared showers," John said quietly, looking around to make sure no one else had heard the last part.

Sherlock tapped his glass against the rim of John's and drank down half of it right away, something he knew wasn't the best idea but he was doing nonetheless. John chuckled at him and took a sip before going back to his food.

_____

Three hours later they were stumbling into Sherlock's flat, kissing desperately and groping each other.

"You taste like ganache," Sherlock murmured as he fumbled for the light switch.

"That's because of the ganache," John said, giggling uncontrollably and looking around. "Bedroom?"

Sherlock wiggled his hips a bit and dragged John down the hall, slipping his shoes off as he went and trying, but failing, to do the same with his socks. They tumbled onto the bed in another bout of laughter and John crawled over Sherlock to start unbuttoning his shirt.

"Tonight was," he said, kissing down Sherlock's chest, "bloody amazing. I've never had food like that. I reckon I should date you just for the dinners alone."

It was a tease but he felt Sherlock take in a sharp breath. He looked up to find Sherlock's eyebrows knit tightly and smiled softly at him before pressing their lips together. When he pulled away Sherlock still looked hurt.

He ran his fingers up into Sherlock's curls and looked him in the eyes, trying to be as open as possible so the genius could see he was telling the truth. "We don't have to date, yeah?" He said, misunderstanding Sherlock's reaction completely.

"Yes, John," Sherlock said.

"Besides, I'd like you even if you were a bookkeeper," John said, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock snorted and relaxed a little. "That was a horrid lie, wasn't it?" He asked.

John hummed against his neck and poked him in the side and Sherlock chuckled.

"Aright," Sherlock said, "undress me already."

"Pushy brat," John said fondly, sitting up and getting back to the buttons.

"You like it," Sherlock said, feeling a little dizzy and warm from the wine.

"You know I do," John replied as Sherlock slipped off his suit jacket and shirt.

John started on his trousers and Sherlock let his head fall back to the bed with a sigh. John was fumbling a bit, fingers not as deft as before, but he was getting along fine enough and soon Sherlock was lifting his hips so his trousers and pants could be pulled down and off, socks going with them.

"Tell me what you want," John said, standing to remove his own clothes.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and propped himself up on his elbows, looking John over and realising what he said next could ruin everything. He braced himself for rejection and thanked God they'd ended up in his flat and not John's because when, if, John decided to leave he could just curl up and go to bed.

"I wasn't truthful that first night," he admitted, "this isn't just sex. At least, not for me."

John stilled, hand on his zip, and looked up.

Sherlock went on. "And if it is for you I think we should just...we should just be friends or something. You can still move in and we could, well, we could be flatmates and that would be enough, but I've been feeling-"

"I never wanted it to just be sex," John said, "I mean, I wanted that first night to be a date. But I thought maybe you didn't date and-"

"You want to date me?" Sherlock asked, actually surprised by the response.

"Of course. Of course I want to date you. I thought that had come across," John said.

"But...exclusively?" Sherlock asked nervously.

John snorted and closed his eyes for a second. He should have known that Sherlock would need him to explain that after how he'd reacted to John missing him. In truth he hadn't felt that way about someone in so long that it was a little frightening.

"Exclusively," John said, "absolutely."

"Oh," Sherlock said, shakily, nodding and frowning.

"If that's alright with-" John tried.

Sherlock caught him off guard by choking on a sob and covering his eyes with his hand as he curled in on himself.

"God, if you don't want," he said, slipping onto the bed and rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's back.

Sherlock turned and pressed himself to John's chest and John held him tight, not completely sure what the hell was going on.

"I do want that. I'm an idiot," Sherlock grumbled against John's chest. "I'm an idiot and I've ruined everything by crying like a child and all I wanted was for you to like me."

John laughed softly and Sherlock glared up at him.

"You haven't ruined anything," John said. "Not a single thing."

Sherlock surged forward and pressed his lips to John's and sobbed again into his mouth. He was overwhelmed and was drifting a bit but John brought him back to earth by drawing back to kiss his cheek gently.

"Anything you want," John said. "Anything at all."

Sherlock spread his legs and pulled John on top of him and John leaned down and kissed away his tears as Sherlock yanked his trousers off. He kicked them and his pants off as Sherlock reached into the bedside table and pulled out a small bottle of lube and a condom.

Sherlock pressed them into John's hand and John grinned and kissed up the inside of his thighs. 

It didn't take long to prepare Sherlock as the alcohol had loosened his muscles a bit and he was soon moaning as John pushed three fingers into him and sucked on his thigh. John tightened his lips and Sherlock whimpered, pulling John's hair until the man sat up with a grin.

"Now, please," Sherlock begged.

"You're sure," John said, sort of a question, searching Sherlock's face.

"I know what I want," Sherlock said spreading his legs wider and shifting slightly on the bed.

John chuckled and rolled the condom on, moving forward and pressing the tip of his cock to Sherlock's hole. It slipped in effortlessly and Sherlock sighed as the thickest bit of John's shaft pushed into him.

"This alright?" John asked, shaking with the need to start thrusting.

"Yes," Sherlock groaned, legs wrapping around John's waist and tightening.

John pushed into him and grunted, pulling back slowly and then pushing in again. "Yeah?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured.

"Like that?"

Sherlock nodded and John set up a steady rhythm, pushing into Sherlock as deeply as he could before pulling almost all the way out only to sink in again. Sherlock was a bloody mess underneath him, eyes closed and head thrown back as John kissed his neck and shoulders and chest.

"I'm close," John said, sitting back and pulling one of Sherlock's legs onto his shoulder. "Fuck, I'm close."

Sherlock gripped him tightly as his hips stuttered at the new angle and John moaned loudly and started to come.

As soon as he was done coming he rolled his hips and watched as the man pulled feverishly at his cock.

"My," Sherlock panted, "will you suck on-"

John pulled out and veritably dove to suck both of Sherlock's bollocks into his mouth, pulling Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and making the man cry out. Sherlock focused on the head of his prick and closed his eyes again and let John's prodding tongue work between his bollocks and push him closer to orgasm. It only took a bit more sucking and nosing around before Sherlock's legs shook and he started to come all over himself. John growled and shook his head from side to side and Sherlock nearly passed out.

_____

A while later, as they were laying under the covers listening to the rain that had just started tapping against the window, Sherlock looked up at John from where he was pressed to his chest and spoke softly. "You're my boyfriend now."

"Yes I am," John said, understanding Sherlock's need for reassurance.

"You'll move in as well," Sherlock said.

"Mmm," John replied. "Tomorrow."

"And you'll make me shepherd's pie and sandwiches," Sherlock added sleepily.

"Yes I will," John said, kissing his forehead.

"And take care of me," Sherlock added under his breath, as if to himself alone.

"And take care of you," John agreed, holding him tight.

Sherlock looked up at him and then buried his face between John's arm and side and breathed deeply.

"Go to sleep now," John said. "I'll make us a fry up in the morning and if you don't have anything on we can stay in bed for a while."

Sherlock nodded against him and sighed and didn't have to be convinced any more than that to fall asleep.


	9. Pleased

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yo, Mikey, stick yo dick in a cake already...

The next morning Sherlock woke to John holding him close. He really needed a wee but John was soft and warm. He tried to keep his breathing even so as not to disturb John but the man woke on his own several minutes later.

"I need the loo," Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

"Too bad," John replied, smile curling his lip. 

Sherlock pressed his face to John's chest and squirmed a bit and John sighed, long suffering, and let him extricate himself from their cocoon of blankets and make his way to the toilet. Sherlock looked over his shoulders a few times as he did, as if he were sure he'd find the bed empty and the whole situation a cruel dream, and John grinned sleepily at him.

When Sherlock was done relieving himself and was at the sink washing his hands John went in as well. Sherlock waited, drying his hands, until John came up behind him to wash his own, and sighed as he melted back into his arms.

"You'll come back to bed?" Sherlock asked.

"I thought I promised you a fry-up," John said, letting Sherlock wash his fingers as he couldn't possibly see the sink over the taller man's shoulder.

Sherlock stilled his hands and hummed thoughtfully. "I'm not sure if I can decide."

"Bed for another hour then?" John asked as Sherlock went back to soaping his hands up.

"Yes, another hour."

_____

That hour turned into two, sleeping snugly together with the duvet pushed to the foot of the bed, before Sherlock finally pulled John out of bed and crammed him into the small shower. They cleaned quickly and John had a towel wrapped around Sherlock's head when the genius spoke.

"I thought people who were in the army always woke up early," Sherlock said as he closed his eyes and let John dry his hair.

"Don't really see the merit in that with you wrapped in my arms. Besides, the other thing you learn in the army is how to fall asleep at any time by will alone," John replied, taking the bottle of leave-in conditioner from Sherlock and massaging it into his curls. "Comb?"

Sherlock passed him the comb and watched nervously as John combed through his curls and parted his hair for him. It was almost right.

"Gonna start on breakfast," John said, standing from where he was bent over Sherlock and washing the conditioner off his hands. "You have plenty of food in, right? Eggs and all?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock said as he took the comb and gave himself a deeper part.

John licked his lips and smiled softly for a moment as he watched Sherlock wrangle his wild curls before leaving him to it. The man knew what he was doing, after all.

When Sherlock came into the kitchen five minutes later, dressed in a tight fitting charcoal gray suit and a bone white shirt, he barely made it through the door before his breath caught in his throat. 

Oh, John. 

He was whistling softly as he whisked something in a small bowl, towel draped low on his hips and hair still wild from drying. It stuck up on one side and Sherlock's brain seemed to find that extremely comforting for some reason.

"Wouldn't it be nice if we were married, then-" John sang, then going back to whistling.

Sherlock swallowed hard on the emotion nearly choking him to bloody death and started at a sharp knock on the door. At that time of day it could only be one person.

"My brother is here," he said as he passed John.

"Suppose I have enough eggs for one more," John said, looking at his spread.

"Not enough for him," Sherlock replied bitterly.

John continued to prep while Sherlock walked to the door and didn't stop when he heard an angry grumble and a man in a bespoke suit walked into the sitting room. The man tapped his umbrella on the floor and looked about to say something when he saw that John was there and not yet dressed. His mouth hung open for a moment before curling into a smarmy grin.

"Mr Watson, I presume," the man said.

John squared his shoulders and set the bowl down, hands going to his hips.

"I wouldn't have come over if I'd known you would be in such a state of undress," the man added, nose scrunching a bit.

"And yet, here you are, refusing to leave," Sherlock said facetiously, "how very uncomfortable for you."

"My brother has forgot his manners," the man continued, holding a hand out. "I'm Mycroft Holmes."

John looked at Mycroft's hand but didn't offer his own, the urge to biting at him as he refused. It wouldn't do any good to show a bit of respect to someone so obviously manipulative and the way Sherlock was fidgeting had John on high alert.

"You cook" Mycroft said, his smile turning uncomfortably teasing. 

John nodded and cocked his head to the side.

"It must be hard pleasing such an...educated palate as my brothers," Mycroft added, letting enough innuendo ooze into it to make Sherlock's stomach turn.

"I've not had trouble yet," John said, pausing for emphasis, "pleasing him."

Sherlock's eyes shot wide and the smile dropped from Mycroft's face.

Mycroft was finally the one looking close to crawling out of his skin. "Well, I suppose I should leave you to it."

John licked his lips and puffed his chest out triumphantly as Mycroft turned and slowly left the flat. When the front door was closed Sherlock slumped against it and closed his eyes.

"He takes the food as sex metaphor very seriously, doesn't he?" John asked as he picked his bowl back up.

Sherlock chuckled and walked into the kitchen, an extra swish in his hips. "You have no idea. I think he'd possibly even bugger a cake if he particularly liked the look of it."

John chuckled along with him and shuffled around for a frying pan. "Remind me never to eat off his plate."

Sherlock wrinkled up his nose and moved up behind John to rest his chin on his shoulder and watch him start cooking.

"You've found everything you need?" Sherlock asked, thankful that Mrs Hudson had stocked the kitchen well.

"Mmm," John said. "I could use tea, though."

Sherlock shifted away and filled the kettle as quickly as he could, watching John with unadulterated fondness and a new appreciation for his wit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me waking up at three in the morning to realize I meant metaphor instead of analogy...


	10. Fin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's our last chapter. Thank you guys for reading along. And thank you to that one reader who kicked my arse into gear, magialuna, who got this fic finished.

John moved in that day, Mycroft's people paying for the transportation and set up of John's extra stove in the basement apartment. It was dark and damp but after a few new coats of paint and some things from the hardware store it was an easy place to keep all of John's loose kitchen supplies. He did have quite a lot.

Later that week, after putting the finishing touches on the room, John dragged Sherlock down to have an impromptu cooking lesson. Sherlock was hesitant at first, he was a good cook but John had something more than technical skill, and stood uncomfortably in the corner.

"Chop this," John said, sure that the simple command would be enough to help Sherlock's nerves.

Sherlock whispered John's name with a small nod and moved to chop parsley next to him. They worked through the whole dish like that; John giving orders and Sherlock following them perfectly. It was seamless and John got things done in half the time. He mentioned it as they sat to eat.

"I just followed directions," Sherlock mumbled, feeling himself blush.

"You were meticulous," John replied, taking a piece of lamb between his lips and watching Sherlock carefully. 

"Yes, well, cooking is a science," Sherlock replied.

John licked his lips and grinned at Sherlock. "And you're a scientist."

It wasn't a question, nor was it to poke fun, but Sherlock felt he needed to expound a bit more.

"The science of cooking is my specialty although I was originally an epidemiologist," he said.

"What came first, the scientist or the critic?" John asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began. "I was studying the chemical levels in local waterways in France for a summer when I fell in love with food. I kept going to a small restaurant near where I was staying and complaining that there was something off about their bread. It took two weeks but finally the chef threatened to shut me up for good and I ended up on my arse in the back alley. That was when I saw the issues with their pipes. Their water source was compromised and the water they were using to make the bread was causing the taste issue. I was able to prove that there was something wrong even though no one but myself could taste the difference. 

It made me wonder what else I could pick up on and by the time I was headed home, six months later, I had pretty much given myself a crash course in culinary food and realised I have more fungiform papillae on my tongue. I can taste things like bitterness at a much higher rate than normal people."

"So you were a doctor?" John asked, setting his fork and knife down.

Sherlock squirmed a bit under John's gaze and nodded. "Am a doctor. I still do research for several firms on the side but my main interest is in food."

"Dr Holmes," John said, smile widening.

"Please, that's my mother's name," Sherlock dismissed.

"So you're not the first doctor in the family. What about your brother?" John pressed, sitting forward with his elbows on the table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Doesn't he wish. It's just about the only thing I can lord over him."

John chuckled and went back to eating and Sherlock sighed happily and joined. He was already finished with half of it and his mind was spinning with all the information his overactive tongue was sending along to his brain.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John whispered.

"Mmm?" Sherlock replied.

John leaned forward again and watched Sherlock's face carefully. "Can you tell whether or not I used salted butter?"

"You always use unsalted, small batch, butter. That's why you can't afford good beer," Sherlock said, eyes flitting between John's eyes and mouth.

"You're bloody unreal," John said in amazement.

Sherlock swallowed and shrugged and let John pull him to bed.

_____

John and Sherlock's first vacation was to Spain on the tail of an unusually large outbreak of mad cow disease. They got to write off the cost, as it was technically work for Sherlock, and spend they're evenings out on the town like normal tourists. 

The city was in shock but that didn't make it any less beautiful and the way Sherlock lit up when he had the scent of a disease was like watching lightening trapped in a bottle. He was buzzing and thinking and talking non-stop and John was happy to stand looking at paintings while Sherlock rambled on next to him. He'd realise later that it was the only reason Sherlock never complained about them playing tourist.

_____

John slowly started helping out the ailing chef that ran what used to be his grandmother's cafe on the weekends. The two men grew close, one missing parents and the other childless, as Sherlock watched. It was charming to see the two of them natter on over pastries and the old man didn't mind Sherlock being almost permanently attached to John's apron strings.

When the owner of the shop proposed the takeover John was hesitant. He'd been cooking out of the truck for so long that he wondered if being stuck in one place would be a problem. 

"You would have a steady group of regulars," Sherlock offered, chin settled on John's shoulder as he looked over the change of ownership papers and decided whether or not to sign them.

John snorted. "But I'd have to be open for breakfast seven days a week."

"You don't have to say yes," Sherlock whispered, hand going up to tease through John's hair.

"It's just the...the idea of settling down. We would have to move and I know how much you love London," John sighed.

"I love you more," Sherlock said softly.

"This would be a big deal. We'd have to sell this place and get at least two employees," John replied. "And...wait, you love me more than London?"

"More than anything. Let's do it," Sherlock said.

"But...what if you get bored?" John said weakly.

"We've been together for thirty-five years, John, have I ever been bored with you around?" Sherlock asked.

"Often," John replied with a laugh.

Sherlock frowned and John turned in his arms, taking his face in his hands and kissing it.

"We'd have to get new friends," John whispered.

"Neither of us have friends," Sherlock whispered back.

John drew back at that with a surprised face. "I have friends!" 

"You go out for a pint once a month with Mike. You don't have friends," Sherlock replied.

John smiled softly. "So what you're saying, if I can paraphrase, is that I should move out to the middle of nowhere with a grumpy old man to wake up early every bloody day because i have nothing to hold me here because I don't have any friends."

"You're the old one, but yes," Sherlock shot back.

"Get me a pen," John replied quickly.


End file.
